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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900268">Wakeful Heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose'>lily rose (annabeth)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dubcon Kissing, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Incest, Language, M/M, Sibling Incest, ghost-made-them-do-it, is it dubcon if a ghost made them do it?, ye olde trope fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:29:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900268</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"So there's probably a haunting, but what makes you think it had something to do with two teenage boys experimenting with each other?" Sam muses.</i>
</p>
<p>written for "accidental gay kiss" in <a href="https://bannedtogetherbingo2020.tumblr.com/">Banned Together Bingo</a>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Banned Together Bingo 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wakeful Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"The Dendels just bought this house, and they have a son. The article says that the kid had his friend over, and the next thing they knew, they were kissing each other." Dean pauses to push a cassette tape into the tape deck. "I did some digging, and the previous owners had a daughter, Leandra Collins, who was murdered in their backyard—it's why they sold the place."</p>
<p>	Sam frowns—as Metallica blares through the speakers. "Is this just blaming a ghost for natural queer affection? I mean, if they got caught—"</p>
<p>	"Well, both kids swore up and down that the lights flickered and their lips felt cold. The owner's kid, Justin, says he's never considered kissing a boy before. I dunno, Sammy, but we should check it out, don't you think?" Dean is using the same old prosaic argument as always, and Sam can't really dispute that.</p>
<p>	"So there's probably a haunting, but what makes you think it had something to do with two teenage boys experimenting with each other? That's pretty much the definition of a teenage boy," Sam muses.</p>
<p>	"Ah, that's the fun part. Dude, Leandra Collins was known online as TheTwitchyWitchy and she wrote slash fic." Dean stops, and Sam gets the impression he's hesitating.</p>
<p>	"Okay, Dean, what aren't you saying?" Sam's knees ache from being in the Impala—the front seat isn't quite big enough for his long legs, and hasn't been since he hit his last growth spurt.</p>
<p>	"She's written stories based on the Supernatural books," Dean mutters, and the tips of his ears are red. Sam snort-laughs, grabbing for his face to try and stifle it, but alas, that gun has already been fired, and Dean is looking mutinous.</p>
<p>	"I'm sorry! Dude, you should see your face." Sam leans his head back to stretch out the kinks in his neck. From the corner of his eye, he can see Dean slip on his sunglasses, and a remote part of Sam's mind notes that, if he were one of Dean's conquests, he'd probably think his brother looked cool as hell.</p>
<p>	"Shut it, Sam," Dean says. "You don't want to know what I saw online. Man," he shudders, "I can't get it out of my head."</p>
<p>	"Do you need the brain bleach, Dean?" Sam asks, still feeling light in his soul. Things are always so dark when they're hunting, that it's kind of nice to have a reason to laugh—and Dean being embarrassed is always a good reason.</p>
<p>	"You spend too much time online, Sammy," Dean says, then shoots him a dark look. "Have you been reading slash fic based on those infernal novels?"</p>
<p>	Sam puts his hands up. "Not me, I'm innocent, I swear. Hey—isn't that the house?" Sam leans over for a closer look. They're still on the highway, but through some scraggly trees is a backyard with an abundance of brown grass and a tire swing. The back of the house was pictured in the article—Leandra was murdered around that tree, though there was no swing before, and the grass used to be lush and green—and the spotlights mounted on the back of the house were apparently the lights that Dean had mentioned flickering.</p>
<p>	"Yep, that's it, all right," Dean says, pulling off the left exit that has just appeared in front of them. He follows the road as it doubles back and they end up on a quiet residential street, with bikes in front yards, rolling green lawns, and mailboxes that are all neatly painted and straight. "Hey, Sammy, remember when this is what you wanted? White picket fences, suburbia, two point five kids and a dog?"</p>
<p>	"Please don't remind me of Jessica," Sam says, his light mood souring. It's been years, but even though the sadness and despair has dimmed—being with Dean has filled that hole, somehow—the guilt will probably never totally fade. "And to be honest, this place is so perfect it gives me the creeps."</p>
<p>	Dean parks the Impala in front of number 273, and turns off the engine, contemplating the house—which looks similar to every other house on the block.</p>
<p>	"Doesn't seem like the place where you'd find a murder victim, but you're right, dude. It does feel too… I don't know. Something's off. And I wasn't tryin' to bring up Jess. I didn't realize that your dreams of suburbia were so closely linked to her."</p>
<p>	"Never mind, just forget it," Sam says, and Dean gives him a quick glance, but he shrugs and drops the subject.</p>
<p>	"Are we gonna break in?" Sam unbuckles his seat belt and opens the Impala door with its customary squeal. "They don't appear to be home."</p>
<p>	"They're not. They found out about the murder and decamped. They're staying with family and trying to sell the place. Although, to be honest, Sammy, I think it's less the murder and more the homophobia."</p>
<p>	Now that Dean's mentioned it, Sam notices the For Sale sign tacked crookedly in the front yard. It stands out like a sore thumb—like a bright yellow dandelion in the midst of red roses.</p>
<p>	"So they did get upset." Sam sighs as he emerges from the Impala. By the time he's worked the kinks out of his back, Dean is at the trunk, propping it open and retrieving a shotgun loaded with rock salt and a bag of salt. He hands Sam the shotgun, pulls out his favorite pearl-handled gun, and slams the trunk closed.</p>
<p>	"Let's go, Sammy." Dean doesn't wait for Sam, just strides up the lawn—Sam just knows walking on the grass on this street is bound to piss people off, so hopefully no one's watching—but instead of going to the front door and breaking out the lock picks, Dean simply walks around the side of the house.</p>
<p>	Sam follows, feeling like an idiot for thinking they'd need to break in, since Leandra Collins was murdered in her own backyard, literally. The first thing he notices when they get to the yard is that it's oppressively silent—not a twitter from a bird, or the chatter of a squirrel, or even the bark of a neighborhood dog—and that the trees immediately begin to rustle in a strange, localized breeze.</p>
<p>	"Hey, Dean," Sam says, lifting the shotgun. "Feel that?"</p>
<p>	"Yeah." Dean is holding an EMF meter in his left hand, and it's lighting up and beeping. "Definitely ghost activity." He shoves the EMF meter in his pocket, flips up the back of his shirt, and exposes the pale, freckled base of his spine as he gets out his gun. Sam feels a queer start go through him at the sight. What is this weird feeling?</p>
<p>	"Hey—Dean. Turn around." Sam isn't sure why he wants Dean to face him, but Dean doesn't argue, he just slowly turns. And then they're staring into each other's eyes—similar color, similar shape—and Sam's feet are moving without his accord, and Dean is coming closer to him, and—</p>
<p>	Sam doesn't know what happened to the shotgun, or Dean's gun, when his hands are suddenly clasped around the back of Dean's skull. Dean, for his part, has lifted his face, and then—<i>shit</i>. Sam is yelling somewhere in his mind, as their lips meet and cavort. But then that voice shuts up and Sam starts to feel tingly all over, and <i>good</i>.</p>
<p>	Dean's lips aren't as soft as they look—and they are distinctly chilly to the touch. He's dehydrated, if the way his lips feel is any indication—but goddamn, does his brother know how to kiss. Sam is indistinctly aware that this must be why so many girls go home with him, but then he starts to feel something else: jealousy.</p>
<p>	How dare Dean kiss anyone but him? Hasn't he been by Dean's side—hunting, salting, burning—for years now? Sam tightens his hold on the back of Dean's head, feeling the way his hair is a little scratchy, and Dean's five o'clock shadow is rubbing against Sam's face—and it makes a raspy sound as it scrapes up against Sam's own stubble.</p>
<p>	It feels right. Kissing Dean seems like the answer to a question Sam hadn't known his soul was asking. There's a loud bang, a car backfiring on the street or something, but it breaks the spell and Sam jerks back, hands falling to his sides. Dean is panting, and Sam can feel his own breath like jagged knives in his lungs.</p>
<p>	"Dean—the salt!" Sam doesn't wait for that bemused expression to fade from Dean's green eyes—since when did he simply notice Dean's eye color, when he's always known what it is?—but grabs the salt and quickly makes a circle. All at once his mind clears, and he can see the jittery outline of Leandra Collins, hovering above the ground near the tire swing.</p>
<p>	Luckily, the shotgun is within the salt circle, so he picks it up and aims, fires. She disperses, and Dean is still standing there, staring at Sam like he's a hot girl that Dean doesn't know how to charm.</p>
<p>	"Okay, Dean, time to find out where she's buried. We know she's here—and we know she's capable of influencing people." He deliberately doesn't mention the thought he's just had: <i>and if she was writing slash about the Winchesters, she must have been orgasmic to find them in her very backyard and be able to goad them into making out.</i></p>
<p>	"Yeah, okay, Sammy," Dean says.</p>
<p>	"Run for it?" Sam doesn't know how far her reach is, but they've gotta get out of here. Dean nods, and they take off running.</p>
<p>++</p>
<p>	That night, after they've salted and burned her corpse, Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his thighs, staring at the floor. He's been strangely reticent all day since The Incident, as Sam has taken to calling it in his mind. Dean hadn't tried to pick up their waitress, he'd forgotten to order his pie, and now he's glum-faced like his favorite porn star retired.</p>
<p>	"We need to talk about this," Sam says, because he's not a coward—neither of them are. "What happened."</p>
<p>	"It was just like out of one of her stories," Dean mumbles. "I can't—" he wipes his mouth "—I kissed my <i>brother</i>."</p>
<p>	"Or I kissed you," Sam says. "We were under mind control, Dean."</p>
<p>	Dean scuffs at the ratty carpet with the toe of his boot. The room is decorated with swans everywhere, including a napkin folded into a swan, even though that seems kind of fancy for a place with pea green carpeting and neon green walls. The combination makes Sam's head hurt—but not as much as the look on Dean's face.</p>
<p>	"Sam—you should know. She didn't have to exert too much pressure on me."</p>
<p>	"You kissed me on purpose? Did you do it figuring you could hide behind the ghost?" Sam asks, genuinely curious—and not angry.</p>
<p>	"I… may have,  yes," Dean says, then sighs gustily. He kicks at the carpet again.</p>
<p>	"Well," Sam says, "that's good to know, because I was doing the exact same thing."</p>
<p>	The way the room is suddenly oppressively silent, it's like Leandra Collins has returned from the grave—again. Dean's head shoots up, and for long moments, Sam hardly dares to breathe. Dean's eyes are so green, green like the carpet. Yet somehow much more beautiful.</p>
<p>	"Let's, uh, pretend this never happened," Dean chokes out, and Sam is suddenly relieved. He nods. "And <i>forget</i> it ever happened."</p>
<p>	As it turns out, Sam is happy to do that—though for weeks, every time he drifts off to sleep, his mind relives kissing Dean.</p>
<p>	And his body seems unable to find any fault with the matter—even though there's a tiny prickle of unease deep, deep within: didn't he think it was strange, to kiss Dean? Hadn't his mind rebelled when it happened?</p>
<p>	When did he realize he was looking for an excuse to kiss Dean—particularly, whispers the part of his heart that's still awake, <i>when you weren't, and never had?</i></p>
<p>END</p>
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